“Those of you,” Sherwood was saying, “who want out can sell your property for a good price. There’s no reason to fear you wouldn’t get a good price. Those of us who want to continue farming will feel secure that we’re still in a community that values us, that supports us. We are together in this, more than we realize. If we understand that we’re together so much of this Plan makes sense.”
We almost clapped. Being together was after all what the Lombard Orchard was about, too, and he knew it, he believed in it; he no longer thought he alone should run the farm. This was how we’d always loved Sherwood, suddenly, the joyousness knocking us over the head. It would fade away, the feeling, we’d forget about it, we wouldn’t see him for a time, we’d be in earshot of our parents’ complaints but then, then he’d appear before us again, unusual and pure.
When he was done he sat down. Even so Philip continued nodding. “Why is he nodding?” I whispered to William.
“Shush,” he said.
At last the citizens’ portion was concluded. Tribby informed the audience that the board would vote on the Plan at their next meeting.
It was Mrs. Tillet who yelled, “You can’t do that! TONIGHT. It said in the paper you’d vote tonight.”
A rumble rose from the crowd. “You’ve made up your minds so just do the vote.” Someone on the other side shouted, “Vote when you feel like it, fellas!” Another call, “You vote now, when we’re here to watch you.”
Tribby turned to his board. He said, “You boys ready?”
“That’s what this meeting is for! You’re supposed to vote—”
Tribby banged his gavel. “What do you say, boys—and Pam?”
One by one each member indicated that he was prepared.
“I’m going to say what I’ve said before.” Tribby raised his papers in a stack, tapping them together on the table, doing his tidying. “You all know I don’t believe in this Plan. Why would we want to approve even more government, bigger government? We’ve got government oversight in every arena of our life. Uncle Sam telling us when to turn around—”
“The government supports you!” Mrs. Tillet was again irrepressible. “You, personally, Chairman, get subsidies. Look it up, people, on the Internet. Learn how many hundreds of thousands—”
“You want a vote tonight?” Tribby’s throat and jaw were a blotchy red, no way to obscure his rage. “We need any discussion, boys, or have we discussed this thing into the dirt? It’s your call.”
There was all at once a motion, Pam Getchkey, the breeder of Dobermans, moving that the Land-Use Plan not be adopted. She moved also that my father’s committee be dissolved.
The committee over and done? Forever? A cry went up from the crowd. The faction that was incensed by Pam, by Tribby, got to their feet, the chairs banging against each other, the clangs ringing through the room. The Lombards stayed put because of course by and large we weren’t public jumper-uppers and yet I did find myself standing. Dolly was so amazed she started to laugh, calling out, “What are you doing, folks!” The townspeople, both sides, were gibbering, a few of them shaking fists, some of them advancing toward the dais. My mother actually looked alarmed. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, “sit down, Francie.”
“No,” I said, although I somewhat wished I wasn’t on my feet.
The board members held to their positions. My father said afterward that nothing of the sort had happened in that chamber before, a mob of twenty-five or so advancing. Tribby pounded his gavel like a baby at a peg-and-hole toy, leaving it to my father to rise and greet us. He stretched out his long arms, my father. He towered over squat Tribby with the boiling face, my father looming and sallow under the awful light. “Sit down,” he called. “Please. Everyone. Go and sit down.” With his arms out it was as if he could hold us all, as if he could easily contain us.
Tribby continued to strike his gavel. No one looked at anyone else, everyone receding. We had sprung up without thinking in just the way I had shouted out—but now we were ashamed. Because, in truth, no one knew what was going on at the revolution. No one had a plan. Were we going to topple the table? Punch the board members in the nose? The furious cohort went back to their chairs and those of us who had stood without thinking sat back down. William was fiercely reading his book.
“We have to let this process unfold,” my father was saying. “In the next election, you’ll be able to vote for change, if that’s the will of the township. If there’s energy to—”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Tribby sniped, still banging away.
Dolly turned around to us and said in her normal loud speaking voice, “You kids should understand that where we are right now? It’s the nuthouse. I like to think that everyone will leave this loony bin, that the only people left in the township will be these board members, the cuckoo clocks. I have to say, that makes me happy.”